


In Ruins

by jacquelyn_oh



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-28 17:55:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacquelyn_oh/pseuds/jacquelyn_oh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Was Merle’s survival instinct stronger than his loyalty to his brother? Post-"Made to Suffer"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Apparently I write slash. Who knew. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Walking Dead. No copyright infringement intended.

1.

In the months since the world ended with the rise of the dead, Daryl had faced violence and death daily. No hesitation, no true fear – just survival instinct and adrenaline carrying him through. And he realized, as time passed and the world limped along, he was surviving. He was built for this shit: living in the woods, fighting for his life, and hunting his own food. This was what he knew, what he’d grown up with.

For the first time ever, he felt free. Free from his brother and all his drug shit, and from the general shittiness of living poor. No more government or police bullshit, and here he was, thriving.

But this shit in Woodbury – this was something different.

Trapped with his arms tied behind his back, his ears rang with the screams and taunts of the crowd. The rope binding his hands together scratched at the skin of his wrists, and his mouth tasted bitter with adrenaline.

Heart pounding and breaths coming in pants, Daryl for once felt true fear. He’d never really feared death before – his life was shit anyway.

The angry mob pressed in, demanding his and Merle’s death.  The malice on the governor’s sneering face and the shock of seeing his brother with him in this impossible situation – it was all too overwhelming; he couldn’t concentrate.

Daryl stumbled, shuffling around looking frantically for some way out, to somehow avoid being torn to shreds by the psychos demanding their blood. Terrorists – that was pure bullshit. For once, Daryl was one of the good guys.

He couldn’t help looking to Merle, his big brother, who could handle anything. Who’d never let anyone put one over on him. Anyone who’d tried had gotten a damn vicious beating.

This time, though, Merle’s fell slack with uncertainty, even as he tried to maintain his defiant stance. When Merle looked at Daryl, fear and brotherly concern were written clear on his face. An old sense of kinship rose between them, throwing Daryl back to his childhood.

The governor’s voice carried over the uproar in the arena. “Now, everyone, we all agree. These terrorists must pay for what they’ve done to us, to our home in Woodbury.”

Dread coiled in Daryl’s stomach, making him queasy as hell, but he’d be damned if he let those bastards see it.

“The way I see it, only one true punishment is fitting for these two. They deserve a special punishment, fitting only for brothers. Merle and his brother must feel the pain we’ve felt, the fear and the panic.” The governor paused dramatically; the crowd quieted as they waited for his next words.

“Let me ask you all… What’s worse? Merle, infiltrating our safe town and violating our trust, or his brother, who killed several of our best men – good men who died protecting us. Now, I ask you, who is worse?”

“That one!” Pointing at Daryl, twisted faces screaming. “The murderer!” One familiar, panicky voice rose above the others – Andrea pleading, begging for his life. The Governor backhanded her, knocking her to the ground.

Shit. Daryl knew what was coming, how he looked to these people, but fuck if he was gonna die like this.

“The town chooses the murderer? Then let his brother punish him for his sins. A fight to the death - the survivor will give us the answers we need.”

A fight to the death? What the fuck? He struggled to keep his expression passive, when he really wanted to fight, to rage, and to hurt that bastard governor. He struggled against the ropes binding his wrists, burning and tearing into his skin.

Still, this wouldn’t be any different from the rest of his life: Merle beating him down, showing him how to be a man, to be tough. Merle was hardly ever there, but when he was, he was a violent son of a bitch.

The crowd rumbled in anticipation as the Governor’s men seized him roughly and dragged him to the center of the arena. He struggled against them, throwing his weight around, trying to break their grip. They threw him to the dirty ground and shoved a knee into his back, grinding it painfully against his spine. A heavy, booted foot ground down on his neck, and a warm knife cut the ropes binding him, nicking his wrists. He immediately lashed out.

“Fuck! Hold the little bastard down.”

Daryl growled, hating the hands holding him down and the men crowding over him. His leather vest ripped loudly as they wrestled it off his shoulders.

Chains clanked as cold metal cuffs clamped onto his wrists. Pulled taught, the chains painfully outstretched Daryl’s arms, and he couldn’t help but panic.

Arms chained and scars exposed, Daryl tried to mask his fear and vulnerability. His breathing quickened, and he could feel sweat rolling down the small of his back.

From behind him, he heard Merle loudly protesting to the Governor. “No man, fuck this! You’re wrong; we ain’t done shit! He don’t deserve this. Come, just let me have him – I can show him what real punishment is!” Merle’s voice rose, become loud and panicky, like Daryl had never heard before.

Daryl couldn’t tell what was coming – he was bound facing away from the center of the arena – but he knew it had to be bad if Merle was scared. Merle had never been scared in his whole damn life.

Footsteps shuffled behind him and the sound of a gun cocking put Daryl further on edge. The Governor hissed, malice in his voice: “Now, Merle, you punish your brother, or I’ll kill you right now.”

Merle’s silence confirmed his acquiescence. Daryl tensed, anger and dread roiling in his stomach. The taunts and shouts of the crowd filled the arena.

Daryl had always known that Merle would only ever look after Merle, and when the crack of a whip echoed through the arena, he knew he was right.

The whip slashed at his back, shocking him with a sharp and stinging pain. Daryl jerked against his chains with the first blows, but he kept silent.

It wasn’t the first time he’d felt this: his father’s belt had hurt like a bitch.

The lashes kept on coming, sending pain screaming through his body, but he forced himself not to cry out. He gritted his teeth and scrunched his eyes shut, trying to ignore his pain and fear, remembering the quiet peacefulness of the forest, and the friendship and sense of belonging he’d discovered over the hard winter, Rick’s trusting gaze, Carol’s soft compassion and understanding, and the sweet innocence of the Li’l Asskicker – but each glancing blow threw him back to the present. A warm wetness dripped down his stinging back; he trembled as blood seeped from his wounds.

“Now, now, Merle,” the Governor called out, reaching Daryl through his haze of pain and growing anger and injustice. “You’ve got to really mean it. You need to hurt him, to punish him for what he did to us. Sacrifice him for Woodbury.”

Goddamn, a sacrifice? Would Merle do it? Could he kill his own brother? Daryl was sure Merle would kill anything to save his own ass… meaning Daryl was on his own.

A few moments of silence passed before he heard the Governor ask threateningly, “Do you want to die, Merle?”

Daryl swallowed painfully, grunting out with a cough, “Merle.” He pulled at the chains, turning to look back over his shoulder toward his brother.

Merle’s eyes hardened, shutting him out, no longer looking at Daryl like a brother, like his own kin – and that was when Daryl’s hope died.

His older brother, his one protector, the only one who had ever cared about him, was about to kill Daryl to save himself.

Bile crawled up his throat with the betrayal, and he forced himself to look down at his feet, away from the vicious bastard Merle had become once again. He wouldn’t beg his brother for mercy, knew it wouldn’t help, and he would never give up his pride.

He knew he had grown into a different, better person since he’d lost Merle, shuttering his wariness and resentment, learning to trust and to open himself to the group. Over the winter, Daryl had grown much more confident, as a protector of the group and as a person.

Standing strong, head held high, he braced himself for the coming blows.

The whip cracked again and again, tearing into his back, the pain striking like lightning and burning in its aftermath.

The crowd’s mindless screams and malicious cheers swallowed the echoing crack of the whip.

His brother’s treachery floated through the back of his mind – he could no longer remember anything good with which to distract himself. His jaw ached from the tension and his legs trembled, threatening to give out.

The pain intensified, and he heard Merle grunting with increased effort behind him. With each blow, Daryl’s anger grew, at Merle, at the Governor and the assholes of Woodbury, and eventually, at Rick and the others for leaving him there to be tortured.

Descending into his adrenaline-fueled rage and sadism, Merle taunted his brother, dehumanizing him. “Yeah, boy, you feel that? That’s what you deserve, baby brother. You was askin’ for it – leaving me on that rooftop to die like an animal.” And with an especially violent, painful blow, “Yeah, fuck you!”

Daryl struggled even more at Merle’s taunts, cussing and rattling his chains, trying in vain to free himself.  Trembling, he shook his head to throw the sweat off his face.

The Governor’s condescending, falsely caring voice stopped Merle’s assault. “That’s enough, son.” The whip clattered to the ground as Merle breathed heavily.

Displeased shouts rang out through the arena, demanding more blood. Demanded the deaths of the terrorists. Daryl didn’t for one second think this fucking nightmare was over.

“Now Merle, I’ll give you one more chance, due to your service to Woodbury. If you help us defeat your terrorist group and bring your brother to his rightful end, then maybe we’ll let you live… but you’ve got to earn your forgiveness.” Malice colored the governor’s voice. The crowd shouted and clamored in approval. “You and your brother will fight to the death.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Two men released Daryl’s chains, unshackling him. With the pain, blood loss, and anxiety making him dizzy, he struggled to remain standing. His eyes constantly flickered around, looking for some sort of out, but to no avail.

He wondered how far this would go. What was the point? The Governor wanting to make Merle kill Daryl? Or to make them both suffer?

Was Merle’s survival instinct stronger than his loyalty to his brother? Daryl knew it was - Merle had left him in Atlanta, not even trying to find his way back to the quarry.

His heart pounding, Daryl slowly turned back toward the center of the arena; the torches encircling them threw orange light and shadows over the scene, casting in a hellish glow over the night.

Merle stood a couple yards away, his face a mess of dark emotions. Next to him lay the whip, dark and wet with Daryl’s blood.

When Daryl saw it, realized what it was and what Merle had done to him, he freaked the fuck out. Rage like he’d never felt before propelled him forward, and he threw a fist as hard as he could into Merle’s jaw.

Around them, the crowd once more burst into cheers and shouts, urging Daryl on with violent slurs.

Merle reeled back, not expecting Daryl’s sudden attack. He recovered quickly with a kick to his brother’s stomach. Daryl fell back to the ground, landing hard on his side, his head hitting the dirt.

One of the governor’s men slid a knife over to Daryl, and he fumbled to grab it as he stood. Merle called out, “You gonna take the pussy way out, boy?” He laughed derisively. “Go ahead ‘n kill me – I know you’ve always wanted to.”

Well, Merle was right about one thing. All Daryl’s life, Merle had been doing shit to make Daryl want to hurt him – his drunken rages, his apathy to their father beating Daryl bloody when he was just a little kid. Merle had a mean streak a mile wide and constantly straddled the line of insanity.

Daryl remembered all of this, all the shit Merle had subjected him to, and in those moments, he hated his brother.

He blindly lashed out at Merle with the knife, firelight glinting off its edge as it slashed a red line across Merle’s chest, but with each movement, Daryl felt weaker from blood loss and dizziness.

In the struggle, Merle wrestled him to the ground; his head hit the ground with an awful crack, and he lost his grip on the knife. Merle’s metal stump dug into Daryl chest as his brother pinned him down, grinding the welts on his back into the dirt-covered ground.

Through his haze of confusion and pain, Daryl thought he smelled smoke. As Merle kept hitting him, Daryl began to fade, and black began narrowing his vision.

He struggled to focus, to push Merle off him and block his blows. In the background, he could hear women screaming and people running. The smell of smoke intensified until he could practically taste it.

His vision began to blur, when abruptly, Merle was ripped away from Daryl. He saw a blurry figure hit Merle in the face with the butt of a rifle and then drop to his knees next to Daryl. Daryl looked up in confusion, grimacing. A warm hand touched his face gingerly, ghosting over his bruises and welts.

He squinted upwards, and when he recognized Rick, he felt overwhelming relief. He brought his hand up to cover Rick’s, wanting physical proof the man was actually there, and then relaxed, letting his head fall to the ground.

He could vaguely hear Rick shouting to him, the words lost in the ringing in his ears; he watched Rick’s mouth move uncomprehendingly. On his other side, someone grabbed him by the shoulder, all soft hands and blond hair ( _Andrea?_ ), and pulled him up to a sitting position.

Daryl tried to focus on Rick’s face, his forehead creased with worry, and Daryl wondered if he was hallucinating as he and Andrea pulled him up. The smell of kerosene intensified as all around them flames encroached.

“Daryl!” Rick yelled, breaking into Daryl’s confusion. “I need you to stay awake. We’re going to get you out of here; don’t worry.”

Andrea and Rick hauled him to his feet, dizzying and momentarily blinding him in a head rush. They pulled his arms around their shoulders, and Daryl tried to walk, leaning heavily on Rick to keep himself upright. “Shit, man,” he ground out, words slightly slurred. “Knew you’d come for me.”

Rick huffed with exertion, replying in a firm voice. “Of course I’d come for you. It’s what we do.”

“Yer goddamn right it is,” Daryl managed to mumble. Affection and gratitude warmed his chest as Rick navigated them out of the hellhole that was Woodbury.

Queasy and barely conscious, Daryl focused on stumbling forward with Rick steadying him, until they finally managed to return to the safety of the forest, losing themselves in the darkness between the trees and wildlife. Recognizing the safety of the forest, Daryl finally gave in to the darkness.

*

Outside the walls of Woodbury, with Glenn injured, Maggie shaking in fear next to him and Michonne looking to Rick for answers, Rick contemplated his options: get Maggie and Glenn safely back to the prison or risk everyone to go back for Daryl.

Rick thought about Daryl: their friendship, Daryl’s role in the group (protector, provider), and how Rick would feel if he left Daryl behind. He would never be able to live with himself… wouldn’t be able to deal with the new world without Daryl by his side. And he didn’t even want to think about how Daryl would feel if he were left behind in Woodbury.

Rick couldn’t lose Daryl – especially after suffering Lori’s loss. He needed and trusted Daryl to look over his family. Daryl had saved Rick’s daughter’s life, looked after her and Carl while Rick broke down.

Rick deeply believed that despite his roughness and rough upbringing, and what had to be an awful childhood, Daryl was a good man, with a good heart. He’d come into his own these last few months, devoting himself to Rick and the group’s safety, strong and reliable as Rick’s right hand man, his closest friend and brother-in-arms. Daryl knew him, understood him.

Merle’s absence had brought about change in Daryl, of that Rick was sure, and Rick couldn’t shake the memory of Daryl’s face that day when he pleaded to Rick to go find his brother, the almost childish hope and belief in his expression. Daryl hadn’t met Rick’s eyes when he acquiesced to Rick’s requests. Perhaps Daryl had gone to find his brother.

Maybe Daryl would be fine when they found him, happily reunited with Merle… Rick’s stomach turned at the thought of Merle back with the group. His return would be disastrous, for Daryl most of all.

From what Rick remembered, Merle had been a dumb-as-shit, mean, drug-addicted asshole when Rick had encountered him in Atlanta – and now, apparently, he tortured people in Woodbury as one of the Governor’s henchmen. Seemed a perfectly fitting role for him.

Daryl, by the look on his face earlier that day, still held that foolish trust in his older brother. Daryl had never divulged any details of his life before the word ended and had never explained the scars Rick had seen while Hershel stitched up Daryl’s wounds after he’d been shot on the farm.

Daryl was a hard man, given away by the lines of age and hurt marking his face.

Rick decided that they’d come to Woodbury to get their people back, and he’d be damned if they left one of their own behind (one of _his_ own: a strange possessiveness welled within him at the thought of Daryl).

Decision made, Rick formed a plan: only Michonne and he were in any shape to re-infiltrate Woodbury, track down Daryl and get him out alive. They had limited ammunition and supplies; only two smoke bombs and few bullets remained. They’d have to rely mainly on stealth, luck and instinct.

“Michonne, you and I’ll go back in. Maggie, you stay here with Glenn. Keep out of sight until get back. Be safe.”

A serious look passed between him and Michonne. “Let’s get moving.” Michonne nodded grimly, brandishing her katana.

Rick and Michonne crept closer to the city’s outer walls, noticing fewer guards than before. Rick knew some of the Governor’s men were dead; others likely still searched for their group after the chaos they’d caused. Either way, Rick felt both grateful and suspicious – the lack of guards weakened the wall’s defenses.

They climbed stealthily over the wall, finding an unwatched area deep in the shadows, away from the flickering streetlamps and shielded from the moonlight by the overhanging tree branches of the forest.

On dangerous runs like this one he felt every inch the police officer he’d been, through and through, before being shot and awakening into hell. His training gave him the skills and the instincts to accomplish tasks such as this, the rescue and recovery of the man closest to him.

Once inside the city walls, they hugged the walls of the buildings lining the street, desolate save for a few children being hurried along by an older woman.

“Where would they be going so late at night?” Rick commented to Michonne, voice low and suspicious.

“Follow them.”

They crossed the street at a run and followed the group, hanging back to avoid detection.

As they progressed into the heart of Woodbury, tumult brewed in the distance.  A clamorous mob’s shouts and jeers echoed through the night. An ominous dread rose deep in Rick as they neared the source of the noise.

Rick gestured toward the building to Michonne. She stopped abruptly and caught his arm, expression grave. “They must have taken him to the arena.”

At Rick questioning look, Michonne elaborated. “For the governor’s games.” She paused, and then continued. “Daryl may have been captured and taken to the arena to be… dealt with.”

“What would they do to him?”

Michonne remained silent.

Without another word, he turned and ran toward the large building at the end of the street, where light spilled out from around the corner.

Hiding in the shadows with his back against the wall, Rick peeked into the arena to see a throng of townspeople grouped around something he couldn’t make out. Then, through a break in the crowd, he saw into the center of the arena - and his heart stuttered at the sight.

Daryl, stripped of his shirt and shackled arms outstretched, bound in the middle of the arena. Bloody welts crisscrossed his back, and blood ran down his back, soaking into the back of his pants, darkening his leather belt and jeans. Still, Rick noted, Daryl stood tall and strong, back straight and head forward, head cocked slightly in defiance.

Merle stood behind him, whip in hand. The Governor and his men leered at the spectacle from the side. Horrified, Rick froze while the situation sank in. “Fuck,” he breathed, and then reeled back to Michonne.

Breathing hard and fighting his growing anger, he forced out in a shaky voice, “We’re getting him out of there. Now.”

He surveyed the arena: almost a hundred hostile townspeople separated him from Daryl – too many for him and Michonne to take on their own.  They had more smoke bombs, but that wouldn’t be enough. They needed a major distraction. Looking around, desperate for ideas, he noticed the fire in the streetlamps. And then he had an idea.

Rick pulled Michonne back down the street where they wouldn’t be seen. Quickly and quietly, he busted into a dark house with lanterns lit in the windows. After checking that the front rooms were empty, he grabbed the three lanterns in the house’s front windows. He rushed back out to the street, and Michonne nodded in understanding when she saw the lanterns swinging in his hands. They quickly returned to the arena.

Rick checked on Daryl, only to see an awful change. Daryl was on the ground, getting a hell of a beating from Merle. Daryl struggled against his brother, but his movements seemed weak and sluggish.

Another struggle played out behind Merle: Andrea, of all people, being restrained by some men. Guilt struck Rick as he realized that she was alive and had made it off the farm all on her own, after they’d abandoned her. He’d forbidden Daryl from going back to look for her – it was Rick’s own fault that she’d ended up in such a dangerous place.

Rick swallowed hard and began to form a plan: “We go to opposite sides of the arena. At the same time, we smash the lanterns and toss out the smoke bombs. If we’re lucky, they’ll all think the place is on fire and flee the area. We need to get in and out of there before they figure out what’s going on. Can you make it over there without drawing any attention?”

Michonne nodded and without ceremony sneaked through the shadows to the other side of the arena, skirting the edge of the crowd. The angry townspeople were too focused on Daryl’s torture to notice anything else. When Michonne was in place, she looked back at Rick. He lifted his hand and counted down with raised fingers: three, two, one.

The lanterns crashed into the ground and smoke bombs clattered towards the crowd. Fire spread immediately around the arena with the kerosene thrown everywhere. Smoke clogged the air, reducing all visibility. In all the mayhem, Rick ran through the crowd, avoiding the fleeing townspeople and the Governor’s men racing to investigate the fire.

Rick spotted Daryl, still held down by Merle, and as Merle raised his fist to strike his brother, Rick reacted violently. He charged at Merle and hit him in the nose with the butt of his rifle, breaking his nose for sure. Blood gushed out of his noise, flying everywhere and adding to the chaos as Merle fell.

On the ground behind Rick, Daryl groaned and rolled to his side, wincing and bringing his hands to his face. Rushing to the barely conscious man, Rick knelt next to him and took in all Daryl’s injuries – bruising and cuts to the face, wrists torn and bloody, and he could barely look at Daryl’s back. The already-scarred skin was a mess of new bleeding gashes. Rick put a hand to Daryl’s check and shouted his name, trying to get his attention.

Daryl’s eyes opened halfway, and his eyes struggled to focus, but once they did, Rick could see they were full of pain, asking for help, trusting in Rick. Empathetic anguish tore through him, and he tried to pull Daryl up. Through the smoke, a woman approached: Andrea. She knelt and helped him lift Daryl to his feet.

Daryl groaned as they stood him up, and he immediately began to list. Rick held him upright, taking Daryl’s arm across him shoulder to help him walk.

Rick yelled to Andrea over the tumult as she bent down to grab Daryl’s discarded vest, “You got a gun?”

She raised the gun in her free hand, the other reaching out to steady Daryl, and smiled grimly. “Found one.”

“Good girl,” Rick’s voice was gritty. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Andrea turned around, weapon raised, and immediately came face to face with the one person she never thought she’d see again: Michonne, fierce and sweaty and intense. Andrea laughed in relief, moving toward her friend, but Michonne only nodded at her coldly before turning to lead the group out of the arena, through the burning wreckage of the bleachers and buildings.

Ahead of Rick and Daryl, Andrea and Michonne deflected attacks by the Governor’s men and angry villagers, all still trying to overtake the terrorists. Michonne brought her deadly blade to the throats of any oncoming threats.

Andrea, Michonne, and Rick guided Daryl (him stumbling, them steadying him and taking some of his weight) to the forest where Glenn and Maggie were hiding. Daryl leaned more heavily on Rick, his grip tightening on Rick’s shoulder. When they entered the forest, the trees blocking out the moonlight and the ground soft beneath their feet, Daryl finally seemed to let go, passing out from all the pain, shock, and blood loss.

*

 


	2. Chapter 2

Eventually consciousness returned – at first, Daryl couldn’t even think, could only feel the pain and confusion swimming through him. Rick’s imploring voice broke through his fog as he was dragged roughly to his feet and pushed forward. Blinking and squinting against his shutter vision, he tried to get his vision to clear, but shit just wouldn’t focus. He could vaguely make out the forest around him, a mess of green and brown and wild noises.

He felt the world tilting, throwing him into sudden weightlessness as he kept losing all sense of balance. A heightened sense of touch grounded him – Rick’s arm low across his back, his own hand grasping Rick’s shoulder, holding on tightly for lack of balance (and, though he didn’t even want to acknowledge the thought, for comfort), and the stinging, burning, sharp pain of the wounds on his back. With every step, Rick’s shirtsleeve scraped at his wounds. 

When he saw the shaky image of a car and an open door, he heaved himself into it, his body seemingly working all on its own with no help from his brain. He slumped in a seat and tried to stop the spinning in his head. 

The car bumped along the uneven road, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees and head low. His hands shook as he buried his face in them, fighting nausea. He leaned into each turn and clenched his jaw at each jostling bump in the road, but the discomfort and pain just got worse as time went on. 

The car finally slowed to a stop, and when he tried to climb out, his balance disappeared completely. His vision started going in and out, and he couldn’t understand all the chaotic voices around him. He had a vague sense of Rick pulling him out of the car and holding him up again, throwing Daryl’s arm around his shoulders. 

Rick led him forward, into the prison. Daryl looked to the ground, trying to keep himself upright, seeing his feet moving as if independent from his will – seeing legs walking, prison tables and chairs, concrete. Sudden weakness sent him stumbling, and he fell onto a bench, trying to catch his breath and clear his head, but hands pulled him back up, urging him further inside. Doors clanged shut and locks fell into place. 

Vaguely, he heard more people approaching (“Oh my god, what happened?” – “Is he okay?” – “Who did this?”). They talked around him, confusing and irritating, until Rick steered him into a cell (a fucking cage: his anxiety and claustrophobia kicked into gear).

When his shins bumped into metal, he tumbled gracelessly, face down on the prison cot. He relaxed into his exhaustion and weakness, wincing at the pain on his face and back. 

It was quieter in there; Rick’s voice reached into his cell from the hallway, low and reassuring but with a note of distress.

*

Daryl didn’t know when he’d passed out, but when he awoke on his stomach on an uncomfortable bunk, his back burned like hell. “What the fuck,” he mumbled and tried to push himself up onto his elbows, but a soft hand on his shoulder pushed him back down. 

“Just lay still Daryl, it’s okay. I’m just cleaning your back – you’re hurt real bad,” he heard Carol say from above and behind him, sadness and worry clear in her voice. He scrunched his eyes shut, trying not to think of what had happened. Trying not to think of all his old scars exposed.

Daryl felt her motherly instinct in the way she touched him. “Way to make me feel better, lady.” His voice came out scratchy and weak, and he hated it. “Jus’ leave me alone.”

She continued cleaning his wounds, and his entire body clenched with the pain. He was sure Carol knew how bad it hurt, how tense he was. He pressed his face hard against the scratchy pillow, hugging it tightly as she dabbed at his back, the smell of the rubbing alcohol stinging his nose. He wondered vaguely if he did have a concussion – the world spun around him sickeningly, and he found he could no longer hold on to consciousness.  
*  
The next time he woke up, he heard Rick close to him, muttering curses, hopes and invocations. A warm, calloused hand rested on his lower back, warm against his skin, thumb rubbing back and forth soothingly. Daryl shifted, sighing and relaxing into the soft touch. 

Exhaustion soon overcame him once more, swirling him back down into oblivion. This time, as he slept, he dreamed of fire, Merle’s broad smile, and the loud crack of a whip.

* 

After two days of sleeping and dreaming unpleasant things he tried to forget and people irritating him like all hell, he was about ready to kill something. 

Carol and Hershel wouldn’t let him get up, and neither would his own body – every time he tried to do more than sit up, the skin of his back would pull and shoot a sharp pain through his nerves, and he’d bleed all over his shirt (again), and then he’d be pissed and frustrated for another several hours. 

At least when he’d been shot on the farm he’d been able to heal up in his tent. Outside. With fresh air. Alone. 

Here… he was stuck in a cage. A four by six foot concrete hell. It was like he really was in prison; he couldn’t do anything but lay there and think about all the awful shit he’d been through, and curse himself for his stupidity. For his weakness.

He shouldn’t have let his dad beat the hell out of him as a kid.

He shouldn’t have trusted Merle to stop his dad, and he shouldn’t have been surprised and disappointed when Merle hadn’t stopped him. 

He shouldn’t have gone looking for Merle when the world had ended, and he shouldn’t have worried about his racist, junkie brother. 

He shouldn’t have gone looking for Merle in Woodbury, and he shouldn’t have let Merle hurt him (whip him).

He shouldn’t give a fuck about Merle. 

And yet, he still wondered if Merle had made it out of Woodbury. If he’d even tried to escape, or if he had stayed to earn his forgiveness from the Governor. Worried whether he’d be all right. 

(And a quiet part in the back of Daryl’s mind wondered when Merle would come for him. To finish what he’d started in Woodbury.)

*

As soon as he could manage it without passing out or tearing open his wounds and bleeding all over the place, he got the hell outta there. Standing on shaky legs, he pulled on one of his worn flannel shirts and jeans. 

He could hear people talking in the other room, and he swore he heard Merle’s name. He walked closer, and heard the others talking more clearly. Glenn’s voice stood out the most: “I feel so bad for Daryl… I’m not surprised Merle did this, though. He always was a bastard.” 

Sudden anger churned in Daryl’s gut. He didn’t want anyone knowing what had happened (though, he realized, Andrea been right there), and he really didn’t want them all sitting around like old women and gossiping about poor old Daryl. 

They didn’t know shit about him and Merle – didn’t know how much they’d been through together, how much Merle had done for Daryl in his life. Especially didn’t know what had gone down in Woodbury, the choice that the Governor had given Merle. Save himself or his brother. He’d chosen himself, and Daryl couldn’t forget that, nor could he forget the sinking betrayal he’d felt when he realized Merle would kill him to save his own life.

When he emerged, he saw Andrea, Glenn, Maggie, Carol, and Hershel sitting at a table in the common area. They immediately stopped talking and just stared at him, uncomfortable surprise in their expressions. “What the fuck you talkin’ about?”

Glenn looked up, surprised and guilty. “Daryl – “

Before he could say anything else, he grabbed his set of keys off a nearby table and strode out of the cell block, pulling the door shut and locking it behind him, effectively cutting off Glenn as he tried to follow. 

“Hey! Listen, Daryl, I’m sorry.”

“Fuck you.” He spat, then turned his back and strode off into the depths of the prison, seething and shaking with anger and adrenaline. 

He wanted to go back and yell at them, curse and rage. Anger churned in his veins, and he had no idea what to do with it. 

He growled in frustration, moving mindlessly through the dark prison halls, over blood-spattered floors and past half-eaten corpses and stinking, rotting flesh. 

Fucking Andrea and her big, condescending mouth – now everyone would know what had gone down in Woodbury: that his own brother had tortured and almost killed him. 

Daryl flushed with shame and anger. “Fuck!” He muttered, bracing his arms against the wall and leaning his head down. He’d found himself in a half-lit hallway, weak light coming in through dirty, cracked windows. 

He had no idea what to do with this situation. He didn’t want to have to look everyone in the eye, to see their pity. Especially Carol – sweet, understanding Carol. 

Merle could still be alive; Daryl had lost track of him once the arena was lit on fire and the smoke had consumed everything. 

Merle could be dead, or still being held (tortured?) by the Governor, or maybe he’d been able to escape, like Daryl. Except Daryl had been rescued… nobody would come for Merle. He would be left behind once again. 

Rick had left him behind for the second time. Daryl wanted like hell to blame Rick, but he did understand why Rick had done it. 

Daryl felt guilty as fuck, and pissed at himself for that feeling. Merle had given him up to save his own ass, thrown him aside like nothing. Like Merle had done so many times throughout their lives – he’d go on and on about how nobody cared about Daryl but him and that no one ever would, ‘cause Daryl was a just worthless piece of white trash. 

It wasn’t like he’d ever been able to prove Merle wrong – he didn’t know shit about relationships and would rather be alone than force himself to be with others just for the sake of it. Hell, the last couple years after the world had ended had turned him into a different person. Maybe the person he could have been if it weren’t for his family and where he’d come from. But the nightmare in Woodbury had thrown him right back to his old self – angry and violent, with no outlet.

Daryl couldn’t fucking believe that after all of this, he still loved his brother, even though he hated (even feared) Merle.

When Merle went on one of his rages – fueled by drugs, liquor, and straight up insanity - he was as terrifying as he was mean. As a kid, Daryl had learned to fear and obey both his dad and his older brother. The lesson had been driven home by his dad’s belt on his back, and the broken beer bottles he took to Daryl’s chest, and all the bad shit his brother had dragged him into as they’d gotten older. 

Daryl ground his teeth, hating how his life had been a complete fucking waste. Turning and pressing his back against the wall, he slid down to sit on the dirty floor. 

What the fuck was he doing, anyway? He was starting to forget why he still fought. Shit just kept getting worse, and he knew it wouldn’t get better. They’d fight and they’d die and then, eventually, no one (and nothing) would be left. And the world would go on without them. So what was the fucking point anymore?

Above his own heavy breathing, he heard a clanging in the distance, followed by footsteps coming in his direction. 

Daryl pulled himself to his feet, ready to yell at whoever had followed him when he’d made it clear he wanted everyone to leave him alone, but he faltered when he heard Rick’s gravelly voice call out his name. “Daryl? You down here?”

Almost involuntarily, Daryl sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, but then he recalled his still-present anger and indignation at being followed, at Glenn and Andrea gossiping with the group about him, and at the entire situation as a whole. 

“The fuck you followin’ me for?” He muttered defensively as Rick neared.

“Just came to see if you’re all right,” Rick replied bluntly in that patient voice of his. 

“’Course I am!” Daryl spat. Talking to Rick, the one he’d become closest to over the last few change-filled months, he felt completely exposed. Rick could see right through him; he knew it. He began to pace in that grimy, dim hallway and ground his hands against his eyes in frustration. 

He could only imagine what Rick thought of him right now, half in a rage, half about to explode (with guilt? Fear? Shame? Anxiety? Hurt?). “Just leave me alone.” He demanded gruffly, then muttered to himself a quiet goddamn. 

Rick put out a hand to stop him. “Hey.” His voice was soft, unassuming. Daryl stared at the hand hovering next to his arm, and his mind was in two places at once: that fiery, pain-filled arena, and the harsh, bewildering present.

He didn’t respond, just ground his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring Rick until he felt the other man step up to him. Rick repeated himself, just saying, “Hey. Daryl.” He brought a hand to Daryl’s chest and pushed him slightly, backing him up, leaving his hand there as Daryl leaned against the wall. “Look at me.” 

Daryl lifted his head and met Rick’s blue eyes, wary and falsely defiant. 

“I know you’re hurtin’ right now, and I’m sorry about that. What happened with Merle was awful,” Rick paused when Daryl shrugged off Rick’s hand and resumed pacing to put some space between them, still hurt and angry. 

Rick stepped up to Daryl and backed him up against the wall, caging him in to make him stop his pacing. Daryl gave him a fiercely angry glare and went to move away, but Rick put his hands on the wall on both sides of Daryl’s head, trying to get him to focus. 

Daryl sagged against the wall under the weight of everything, his mouth dry and his back rubbing painfully against the rough wall. 

“Words aren’t gonna make things any better for you right now, I know that. But you gotta know that I’m here for you. I got you.” A reassuring evenness filled Rick’s tone.

Daryl lifted his head, looking back at Rick almost uncomprehendingly. Rick held his gaze steadily, strong where Daryl was weak. He couldn’t remember a time when someone had supported him like this – not Merle and never his father. He’d had friends before the end of the world, sure, but just the kind of guys to get fucked up and run around with. 

Daryl could read Rick – knew his moods, could communicate with just gestures and looks – and he knew Rick was serious. A pang went through his heart, and it must have shown on his face because Rick pulled him by the shoulder right into a hug. 

Daryl tensed for a second, but then squeezed his eyes shut, fisted his hands in Rick’s shirt and pulled the other man against him. He relaxed into Rick, resting his forehead on Rick’s shoulder and his hands on Rick’s hips. Tears burned in his eyes, and Daryl hated himself for his weakness (but somehow couldn’t hate himself for taking comfort in Rick’s embrace).

Daryl sighed, and Rick brought a hand to cup the back of Daryl’s neck, pulling him closer, knowing the turmoil Daryl was going through.

Rick’s hand at the back of Daryl’s neck and Daryl’s hands at Rick’s hips held them together until they finally separated. When Rick finally stepped back, Daryl gave him a nod. He watched as Rick retreated, leaving Daryl alone once more. 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Two more chapters to go! This is going to be a short little thing. Let me know what you think! I love to hear from you.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, after an uncomfortable night on his perch, restlessness plagued him. He itched to get out of the prison, to go hunting and forget everything for a while, but he was in no shape to fight off any walkers he might encounter. Stiff and aching, his entire body felt sore from the beating he’d taken at Woodbury, and his back still hurt like hell. 

Busying himself by cleaning his weapons, his bow and each of his knives and all the guns he could get his hands on, he passed the day studiously ignoring the rest of the group. 

He sat quietly apart from the group at dinner when they shared small portions of bland food. Watching the group interact, he noted the tensions in the room: Michonne’s distrusting glare at Andrea; Hershel’s disapproving eye on Carl and Beth as they laughed together; the uncomfortable silence between Maggie and Glenn. 

Everyone dispersed after the meal, and Daryl once again found himself at a loss – nothing to do, no way to distract himself from his thoughts. So he went to the old standby: he grabbed the flask he’d stashed under his makeshift bed.

Drawn to the prison yard and glad for the fresh air of the warm summer night, he escaped outside to the prison yard and saw Rick up on the watchtower. With a resolute sigh, he headed toward Rick, climbing the metal stairs up the tower. 

Rick smiled up at him as Daryl sat, leaning back against the wall. He stretched his legs out in front of him toward the railing and laid his crossbow next to him on the concrete. Side by side, the two of them scanned the landscape sloping away from the prison and listened to the sounds of nighttime in the wild: insects chirping in chorus, wind rustling through the trees and overgrown grass.

Daryl took a swig out of the flask, savoring the afterburn, then held it out to Rick with a raised eyebrow. The other man laughed ruefully and accepted, throwing it back with a small grimace. “Where’d you find it?”

“Fell out of a guard’s pocket when we were moving bodies.” 

“Damn good timing.” Rick laughed ruefully, and Daryl grinned– both of them could use a drink, after Lori and Merle and the baby and Woodbury. They continued to pass the flask back and forth, content to just keep watch and talk of trivial things, avoiding serious conversation. 

Daryl couldn’t help looking back at Rick, admiring the openness and mirth on his face in the midst of such awful circumstances. 

He relaxed in Rick’s presence, or maybe it was the alcohol, and mused, “Haven’t had hard liquor since the CDC.”

“Seems so long ago.”

“Good night, though – you know, before the building blew up.” They both laughed. “Didn’t help I was dead hungover, too.”

“Yeah, I think we all were.” 

They talked and laughed softly, leaning into each other as the alcohol softened the sharp edges of reality and memory. Daryl forgot about Merle and Woodbury amidst the stories of past drunken disasters and Rick lost the pained look in his eyes as they focused only on each other.

*

A bitch of a hangover hit him come morning, and every movement triggered unwelcome discomfort and nausea. Daryl gritted his teeth through his day of gathering wood for the walker bonfire and checking the security of the fences around the prison with the others. Dinner came after a miserable day; Daryl was thankful when he finally got the chance to escape outside and feel like shit on his own. 

The sun was low in the sky as the day ended, and the breeze felt warm on Daryl’s skin. He walked out toward the fence a good distance away from the entrance to the cellblock and sprawled out on the grass. 

Exhausted, he closed his eyes and focused on the sounds of the Georgia outdoors. Wind rustled through the overgrown grass, and birds cried in the distance. He imagined he was back in the forest, hunting alone. He wanted to lose himself among the trees and underbrush where it was just him and nature, and he’d never have to deal with his brother’s betrayal and the wounds on his back.

He lay back, ignoring the pain of the bandages pressing against his damaged back, the ever-present memories of the awful recent past, and the walkers shuffling against the prison fences. 

The outdoors soothed him, and he drowsed as the day turned to dusk. 

An unknown time later, Daryl awoke abruptly, on edge and fearful but not knowing why. The setting sun cast a serene and orangey glow over the prison yard, and beyond the fences, darkness was falling. A cacophony of insect noises dominated, but through it Daryl could still hear the walkers rattling the fences. 

He listened closer, hearing something rustling through the forest beyond the fences. A moment later, a shout rang out, but Daryl couldn’t make out the words. The shout repeated, and he heard his own name on the wind in a familiar voice. 

Merle. 

Daryl shot to his feet, swaying unsteadily and fighting a head rush, but couldn’t make himself move toward the source of the noise. Nausea and rage boiled up within him; he did not want to deal with this. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d do – forgive Merle or kill him – and he had no idea what Merle wanted. 

With everything he knew about Merle, with his wild swings between protective older brother and sadistic asshole, he could never predict Merle’s reactions. Would Merle be sorry for what he’d done to Daryl in Woodbury, or would he be looking to finish the job?  
He finally forced himself to walk toward the noise, shooting a look up at the guard tower. The setting sun illuminated the silhouette of a figure standing at attention with a machine gun in hand, holding something to his face – most likely a walkie-talkie. Shit. He knew that within minutes, Rick and the others would be running out to see what was up. Glenn in particular would not be happy to see Merle. 

Daryl knew the choice he’d have to make – leave Merle out to die, or risk letting him in and loosening him upon the group. The choice Rick would make was obvious – he would protect his family, Carl and Judith, at any cost. 

Daryl couldn’t blame him, but he would also do anything for his family. He couldn’t leave his brother out to die, no way. Did he even have it in him to turn his back on his brother? He hoped Merle had no ulterior motives and that Merle had done everything to find, then save his brother – had done that shit in Woodbury to save them both from getting shot or eaten right there, but he really doubted it. 

He had low hopes about Merle, though; it had been several days since he’d last seen his brother. What had happened since then? 

Daryl picked up his pace, wanting to see what Merle wanted before the group caught up and made the choice for him. As he got closer to the fence, he called out his brother’s name.

Merle’s voice was as loud as ever, boastful and full of swagger, but now somehow hesitant and unsure. “Hey, baby brother, come on, let me in.” 

Jesus, Merle wasn’t even gonna mention what he’d done in Woodbury. 

“Man, you gotta let me in – a fuckin’ herd’s coming. Woodbury’s overrun.” 

Daryl leveled a defiant stare at his brother, squinting in contemplation. When he didn’t get any reaction, Merle grunted in frustration and slammed his hands against the fence, rattling the metal links. At the loud sound, Daryl glanced around behind his brother, only seeing a couple walkers in the distance.

“Jesus, Merle, why should I let you in? You tried to kill me, bro.” 

“Aw, Darylina, did I hurt your feelings? You gonna help me or what! ‘R you gonna watch me die out here?”

Goddamn. Daryl couldn’t believe Merle would play that shit. Merle’d meant to kill him in that arena, he was damn sure of it. 

Daryl wasn’t entirely convinced Merle was telling the truth, that Woodbury had been overrun by a herd. That place was like a fortress. Daryl had a suspicion Merle was playing out a different plan, maybe still “earning the governor’s forgiveness.” He had to know whether his brother was being truthful. Either way, he couldn’t let Merle in, not if it meant putting the group at risk in any way.

Daryl threw open the gates and stalked out toward Merle, knowing deep down that Merle would never be coming in to the prison, and was careful to close the gates behind him.

Daryl got a better look at his brother through the darkness. Dark bruises, scrapes, and blood covered Merle’s front; he’d definitely been in some sort of fight since Daryl had last seen him.

“Ain’t gonna let me in then, huh? Knew you was always scared of me, you little bitch.” 

“Shut the fuck up, Merle. I don’t need your shit right now. What are you doing here?”

“What, you don’t believe old Merle? I’m here for you, baby brother. Came to find you, same as I’ve wanted since Atlanta.” 

Frustrated, Daryl crossed his arms and called bullshit on his brother. “Don’t fucking lie to me. You stole our truck and never even came back to the quarry.” Merle’s eyes narrowed calculatingly, as if he were reevaluating the situation. In the distance behind him, Daryl could hear people running towards them, shouting Daryl’s name, and he knew they had little time left.

Daryl had always backed down when Merle started shit, thinking it not worth the ensuing fight to point out Merle’s lies and manipulations. Daryl was different now – his own man – and in Woodbury Merle had blown apart any loyalty Daryl had left to him. But then a memory from Woodbury popped into his head: Merle’s voice, shaky and scared, “He don’t deserve this.” Daryl swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

“You know what happened in Woodbury ain’t my fault, Daryl.” 

Daryl’s hackles rose. Merle never called him by his given name. “Sure as shit felt like it was.”

“Weren’t no other way out; you know it.”

A flash of rage and hurt went through him. “Fuck you! You were just trying to save your own ass,” he shouted hoarsely, watching Merle’s stony expression faltered for a moment. That just pissed him off even more. “And you know it, too!”

Merle tried to back away from Daryl. “Come on, now, you know I tried –“ but Daryl never let him finish. He violently threw himself at Merle, but he only got a punch in before Merle threw Daryl off him. 

Daryl stumbled back, running into somebody behind him, who grabbed him by the upper arm, steadying him. Rick’s concerned voice broke into his rage. “Daryl, you all right?”

Daryl didn’t answer, just leveled a steady glare at Merle and spat on the ground.

Merle began to laugh. “Well if it ain’t Officer Friendly.” His voice had a malicious bite. 

“Merle.” Rick nodded to him stiffly and diplomatically. “What brings you ‘round here?”

“Lookin’ for my brother, ain’t I? And here I find him, best buddies with the asshole who handcuffed me to a roof and left me to die. Who cost me my own right hand.” His voice light, with a singsong quality, Merle lifted up his metal-topped stump, the bland on the end pointing at Rick. 

“What, are you here for revenge?” Daryl spat. “What the fuck do you want?”

“You done me wrong. It’s time for me to get my revenge, seein’ as how my baby brother was too much of a pussy to do it himself.”

Daryl started back toward Merle, but Rick held him back with a hand gripping his arm.

“Quit pretending, boy. You ain’t like them. You never gave a shit about anyone but yourself. Turn your back on your family first chance you get.” 

“Fuck you, Merle, you know that ain’t true –"

Merle let out a booming laugh. “It ain’t, huh? So you’ll kill your own father, but won’t even take revenge on Officer Friendly here.”

Daryl froze. Merle’s words threw him straight back to that night – he’d been a teenager when he came home to his dad and his friends slouching on the couch in a haze of smoke and low laughs and sick talk. When his dad started in on him (steel-toed boots and fists and you ain’t shit, boy) Daryl felt sick at the smell of bourbon on his father’s breath when the man leaned over his bruised son – then one hand was choking him, the other clutching a tumbler of bourbon, sloshing out of the glass as he swung his arm in punctuation on his vitriolic insults. His father’s slurs had echoed loudly in his head; his anger and fear shaking him deeply, when he just snapped. He’d fumbled for his hunting knife strapped to his belt and stabbed his father. 

Shit. Daryl had never wanted them to know.

At Merle’s words, someone gasped behind Daryl, and Rick’s grip on his arm tightened. Daryl turned to meet Rick’s eyes, trying to convey almost an entire life’s story in one look. Rick nodded slightly and just looked back at him with trust.

Daryl didn’t bother denying that he’d tried to kill his father. “You know he had it comin’.” He told Merle quietly, with a defiant jut of his chin.

“That’s right, boy. Just remember who you are when you’re playing house with these fuckers – you ain’t shit. And they know it.” 

Daryl fumed, shrugging off Rick’s hand, and resumed pacing back and forth in front of Merle, trying to suppress his urge to beat the fuck out of his brother. Daryl knew himself better than Merle did, and he’d been through some bad shit in his life. Growing up poor in a fucking terrible family in the backwoods of Georgia had left him with deep scars, and Merle had tried to keep him down his entire life. 

He’d learned nothing but cruelty as he grew up – from Merle, his father, and the kids and teachers at school who looked down on him as trash. He’d separated himself as he grew up, learned to avoid others. Other people only brought hassle and misery, especially Merle. Whenever he seemed to doing well – decent job, somewhere to live – Merle would come along and fuck it up. Even after the end of the world, he was still doing it. 

“You know what, Merle? You’re a piece of shit, always have been. You need to leave. Don’t ever come back here.” Daryl told his brother in a serious voice. Merle stared back at him defiantly, no hint of regret or any emotion at all in his light eyes.  
Daryl shook his head in disgust and, hopefully for the last time, turned to walk back inside the prison gates, feeling vindictively satisfied at turning his back on his brother.

He looked back at Rick, wanting the other man’s reassurance, but as he turned, a sharp, intensely painful force threw him to the ground. In the moment he fell, he glimpsed Rick’s expression changing from supportive to alarmed and angry. As his face slammed into the dirt a gunshot rang out. Groaning in pain before rolling over onto his back, he looked up to see Rick standing before him, smoking gun in hand. 

Merle dropped to the ground, only feet from where Daryl lay. Daryl scrambled to his feet, staring in horror at his dead brother – his only kin left was now dead at his feet. 

He to Rick, stunned. “Jesus Christ, you just killed my brother.” Grief and relief warred within him.

Rick held out a hand, concerned and cautious. “I’m sorry, Daryl, but you know – “ 

Before he could finish, Daryl turned and stormed off, shaking with anger and shock and wanting nothing more than to be alone.

* 

Everything happened so quickly after that. Thoughts clouded by rage, shock, and grief, Daryl found himself back inside the prison gates, around the side of the building, out of sight of the group. Moonlight illuminated the empty courtyard.

He braced his hands against the concrete wall, gritty against his palms. Images flashed through his mind – his brother’s ruined body, the pulpy flesh and brain matter where his face had been. He tried to keep his eyes open, fighting the memories, but with eyes open or closed, images passed through his mind like a gruesome slideshow. 

So focused on his own turmoil was he that he didn’t hear Rick walk up. When Rick grabbed him by the shoulder from behind, Daryl spun around quickly in surprise, instinctively throwing off Rick’s hand. “What?” He asked harshly, angered and relieved that his friend had followed him. His eyes felt wet, but he didn’t want to wipe away the moisture in front of Rick, not wanting to appear weak. 

“Daryl, I’m sorry – “

“The fuck you sorry for? Wasn’t anything that bastard didn’t deserve.”

“While that may be true, he was still your brother. There’s nothing wrong with grieving – “ 

“You don’t know shit about Merle ‘n me.” Daryl spat, leaning closer to Rick threateningly.

“You’re right; I don’t. All I know is that you loved him in some way, and he hurt you.”

“Christ, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You know what my family did to me? Why I killed my own dad?” His voice began to shake.

“Daryl, you don’t have to – “ 

“Wasn’t even any different from normal. Came home one night. My dad was drunk as hell, watching tv and smoking. He was bigger than Merle, and I was still young then, maybe sixteen. He beat the hell out of me that night. I was just fucking sick of it – he could have killed me; I know it. He had me on the ground by the neck when I stabbed him with my hunting knife. Killed him right there.”

“Daryl, I’m sorry,” Rick said with sympathy in his eyes.

“You know what Merle did? Told the cops he did it. Went to prison for manslaughter, just to save my ass.” Daryl felt frantic and wild, wishing he’d never dragged up all this shit from his past. 

“So that’s my family. They’re all fucking dead, and it’s my fault.” Daryl finished his rant, breathing heavily as his anger and frustration built. At Rick’s horrified look, Daryl almost felt ashamed and angry at himself for revealing that secret.

“I know it’s hard, Daryl.” Rick paused, putting out a hand toward Daryl. “But that’s over now. You have a new family – me, Carol, Glenn, all the others. We care about you.” Rick pleaded, stepping closer to Daryl and putting a hand on his shoulder, trying to get him to focus.

“Quit fucking lying!” Daryl exploded. “You never cared. I’m just your goddamn henchman, using me to do your dirty work. That ain’t family – shit, you don’t give a fuck about me, and you know it – “ 

And suddenly, intensity flashing in his eyes, Rick kissed him roughly, as if saying see? see how much I care about you? Then they were making out, shoulders bumping together, limbs tangling, with hot, wet kisses and wandering hands. Daryl thought, a realization, oh. 

Daryl pulled him closer, clutching at Rick, thumbs on his hipbones. Arousal kicked in, and with a harsh kiss, Daryl pushed Rick up against the concrete wall. Their momentum landed Daryl flush against Rick’s body, all hard angles and muscles and musky, masculine scent, forcing a moan out of Daryl’s mouth. 

At the sound, Rick gave him a hard, closing kiss before pushing him away. The air felt cool against Daryl’s front where he’d been pressed up against Rick. He touched his lips in wonderment, then let his hand fall away. 

“I meant what I said.” Rick’s voice was gravelly, but he gave Daryl a warm, slightly unsteady grin before turning and going back toward the cellblock. 

Still stunned, Daryl could only watch as Rick walked away. Rick brought his hand to his lips, like Daryl had, then shook his head slightly, disbelievingly, with a hint of a smile on his face.

Daryl’s nerves hummed pleasantly, and it took a few moments of standing there dumbly before reality solidified, and he remembered. Merle. 

The weight of the night fell upon him once more, and he was exhausted. The wounds on his back throbbed and his bandages itched, but he knew that night his dreams wouldn’t be nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love to hear what you think! (Also, I own none of this.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is… the end! I hope y’all like it. I sure as hell loved writing it! Thanks so much to everyone who read/reviewed/whatever. I always love to hear what you think, so let me know! And as always, I don’t own anything.

4.

Ignoring anyone who so much as looked at him and keeping everyone at bay with dark glares, Daryl headed back to his perch. Within minutes, he heard Carol’s quiet footsteps coming up the stairs. She carried a bowl of water, with a washcloth and bandage hung over her arm. Quietly, she sat cross-legged on the ground next to him, tugging off his shirt and pushed him to face away from her. 

Bending his legs, he rested his elbows on his knees and laid his head down on his crossed arms. He closed his eyes as she cleaned and bandaged the wound on his back – the last time his brother would ever hurt him. When she was finished, she pressed a kiss to the side of his head and left.

He lay on the uncomfortable thin mattress through the night, listening to the sounds of the others moving about the cellblock and the footsteps of people returning and leaving to go on watch. Judith began to cry and Carol hushed her, humming a soft tune.   
He knew he needed to rest; his body was exhausted, but his mind refused to stop.

As much as he tried not to, he couldn’t help thinking about Merle. He’d always believed Merle was alive out there somehow, somewhere. An unsettled, anxious feeling had lingered deep in his chest after Merle was left in Atlanta. That feeling had lessened in the time since, but the brief hope he’d felt when he’d heard Merle was alive was only torn apart when he’d been brought face to face with his brother. Instead of a brotherly reunion, Merle had thrown him to the wolves: he’d tried to kill Daryl just to save himself. And now he lay dead, alone outside the prison walls, bait to the roaming walkers.

He’d learned to compartmentalize all his awful feelings and trauma since the world had gone to shit, but Merle had been with him, tormenting and loving him his whole life. It was impossible to just cut Merle out of himself; it would be like removing a fucking limb. 

Had Merle blamed Daryl for him getting left in Atlanta? Had he cut Daryl out of himself when he’d cut off his own hand because Rick had handcuffed him to a roof and left him there? And here Daryl was, starting something with the man who’d caused Merle to mutilate himself. 

As morning dawned and he couldn’t handle his own thoughts anymore, he gave in and abandoned the idea of sleep. He went to the kitchen, greeting Beth and Carl as they sat close together, talking quietly over oatmeal, and grabbed one of Carol’s biscuits.   
He continued on, looking to find Carol, hoping her calming, familiar presence would do him some good; he almost wanted to reassure himself that she really was safe, that he hadn’t dreamed or hallucinated finding her in that closet. 

He found her in the laundry room, scrubbing at a blood-stained shirt while a washing machine and dryer ran behind her on the generators. Even days after he’d found her, she looked exhausted. Parked next to her in a basket of clean laundry was Judith, fussing slightly as she waved her arms and kicked her feet around. He smiled slightly, reaching out to touch her soft little hand, and gave Carol a nod. 

“Hey,” She greeted him with a smile. “How’re you doing?”

He shrugged, not wanting to get into it. “How about you?” he deflected. “Back to your old self?”

“Still tired. We’ve had a rough time of it lately, haven’t we?” She asked rhetorically with a rueful grin.

“Kind of an understatement.” He picked up Judith, cradling her in the crook of his arm. She quit her fussing as he held her. 

“I think she missed you. Been fussing all morning.” 

“Yeah, I heard.” He carefully sat on the metal folding table, leaning back against the wall, holding Judith close to his chest. Looking down at her, he said softly, “How you doing, sweetheart? Behaving yourself?” She reached for his hand, gurgling and cooing at him with a grin on her face. Her skin was soft against his rough fingers.

Carol laughed softly, watching him with the baby. “You know, we’re all glad you’re all right. You left quite a hole in the group the last couple of days.” He met her eyes as he heard the empathy in her voice, nodding gratefully at her words. 

As Carol quietly continued with the laundry, Daryl sat next to her with Judith dozing in his arms. He sighed deeply, feeling stress leave his body in the peaceful atmosphere of the room. He finally felt safe letting his subconscious work through the upheaval of the last weeks. He hadn’t gotten time to take a breath in what felt like months, but now he had time – time to think of nothing at all, do nothing, and let his guard down. 

His mind skirted thoughts of Merle and Woodbury, like opposing magnets, and by some miracle (soothed by the serenity of the moment and by fond memories brought about by the smell of laundry soap) his mind lingered on pleasant thought. Thoughts of the few happy times of his childhood, hazy through the time between, floated up through his memory.

Sitting just like this with his own mother as she did laundry in their basement, playing in the warm, clean clothes as she scolded him with a laugh in her voice. Running through the forest with Merle, making tree forts and catching frogs in the creek, before he grew up too much to spend time with his little brother. Even sitting silently next to his father, small next to him on the couch with his knees pulled up under his chin, as they watched the evening news on their small TV. 

For once, his memories weren’t tainted by the pain that followed – the house fire and his mother’s death, his father turning to liquor and loose women, Merle growing into a mean son of a bitch just like their father. 

He remembered his mother’s smiling face; the warm feeling it gave him just like what Judith gave him with her sweet innocence. 

A basket of laundry shoved onto the table next to him startled him out of his thoughts. 

“Help me fold,” Carol demanded. Instead of groaning and refusing as he usually would, he put Judith back into the laundry basket he’d found her in, snuggling her into the pile of warm clothes. 

He jumped down from the table and began folding, allowing a companionable silence to grow between him and Carol. She glanced at him sideways with a sly grin, but he just ignored her. The repetitive movements of folding clothes let his mind wander once more, but this time his thoughts focused on Rick – from when they first met (Rick’s honest eyes and open face) through the winter that brought them closer (and their kiss – and where had that come from?).

He couldn’t deny that kiss was fucking hot. Since when had he wanted that? Did he even want Rick like that? (And could he even deny it?) Fuck, he was confused. He knew one thing for sure – he wanted it to happen again. Wanted to feel Rick against him, to touch him again. But did Rick want that?

Thinking about Rick kept Daryl’s mind off Merle, but he wasn’t sure this was any less troubling. 

Carol broke the comfortable silence: “Are you going to bury Merle today?”

Daryl’s chest clenched with a mess of ugly emotions. “If there’s anything left to bury.” A perverse vindication welled within him at Merle reached such a violent end (and a small flame of horror burned at the thought of Merle’s body torn apart, left alone for the last time). 

*

Dread filled him as he walked through the prison yard to the gates, beyond which lay his brother’s remains. His crossbow felt oddly heavy slung over his back. His dread became justified when he came upon the puddle of blood and gore where Merle’s body had dropped. No bones remained, just chunks of gore in congealing blood sinking into the soft ground, mingling with blades of grass. 

Nauseated, Daryl sank to his knees next to the awful mess – he didn’t know whether to be horrified or relieved. He rubbed his hands over his face, suddenly exhausted, not knowing what think anymore. He sat and stared at the ground, unthinking and unseeingly. 

Moans and dragging footsteps broke him out of his stupor, and he looked to the forest spread out ahead of him. A few walkers struggled toward him. As he stood to return to the prison, he noticed tracks in the dirt coming toward him from the forest. Merle’s tracks, coming from Woodbury. 

A surge of anger filled him, followed by a burning need to see Woodbury, to confirm Merle’s story. He wanted to see Woodbury in ruins. He glanced back toward the prison, knowing it was dangerous to go out on his own, but he didn’t seem to care.

He walked for miles, vague memories of his last return from Woodbury through the same woods – the trees flashing past the car’s windows, the rough terrain. The day grew long, throwing shadows among the trees, by the time he reached the once-secure walls of Woodbury. 

The once-formidable blockade had been reduced to rubble: twisted metal and splintered wood splattered with dark blood left a hole big enough to fit a stampede of walkers. He tasted a faint tang of smoke on the air as he climbed carefully into over a fallen corrugated metal sheet. 

Once over the wall and on the desolate street, he looked around warily, seeing only torn-apart corpses strewn about the pavement, on sidewalks and in doorways, flies abuzz above them in the Georgia heat. Burnt-out buildings loomed large above him, still seeming threatening. To him, this place had felt like hell – evil had lived here – but now it just felt empty. 

He saw no people, just bodies and a few walkers amidst the wreckage. Walls had been torn down, windows busted out, buildings burnt. As he walked down the main street, he heard echoes of shouts from the night he was captured, memories imprinted on the scene before him.

He thought he’d be satisfied, gain closure at seeing Woodbury in ruins, but now he just felt sick. Sick of all the upheaval, the chaotic mass of hate and love and guilt and shame roiling through him. 

He really didn’t want to fucking deal with it anymore.

He decided, as he surveyed the ruined town, that he would leave all of it behind and that Woodbury would have no power over him.

Too much good had come into his life, effusing the air around him with a warmth he’d never felt before. He wanted to hang onto that feeling. He had a duty to protect these people, to provide for them; they depended on him, and he would be there for them. They relied on him, valued his opinion, enjoyed his presence as he did the same for them. He needed the group, even cared about them. 

He remembered the comfortable companionship of laundry with Carol and Judith, and the camaraderie of drinking in the guard tower with Rick. 

At the thought of Rick, a slow burn rose up within him. He felt a pull, then, back to the prison – he knew he shouldn’t be here.

He had decided: he would be thankful for what he had and would no longer dwell on what he’d lost.

*

Returning from Woodbury, Daryl saw from a distance a large fire – for a moment he forgot to breathe: was the prison burning? – but then he remembered, as if from a distant memory, when he, Rick, and Glenn had gathered firewood for a fire to burn the bodies of the walkers they’d cleared from the prison. They must have finished the task while he’d been gone. 

When he reached the gates, he whistled loudly, and moments later, the gate was pulled open for him. He tromped through the yard, watching the fire as he walked. A lone figure lay next to the fire, and somehow Daryl knew it was Rick, from the familiar silhouette, the way he held himself with an arm thrown up across his face. Daryl found himself unable to resist going up to Rick.

He collapsed ungracefully on the ground next to Rick, who barely looked up when he sat down, laying back on the ground. He felt intensely aware of where his arm brushed Rick’s, but somehow, like always, he couldn’t feel anxious in Rick’s presence. He cleared his throat. “Merle was right; Woodbury’s done. Nothing left there, just death.” Saying it made it feel real – the whole shitty ordeal could be over if he left it. And if it was over, what was left for him? Only what made him feel alive.

Daryl stared at Rick, whose eyes were trained on the fire, until after several minutes, Rick finally broke the silence. 

“You know, after we left the farm, I had no idea what we would do – whether we would even be able to survive. I was so angry – at Shane, at Lori, at everything. I don’t know if it’s any different now. I feel guilty every day, but some days I have to convince myself to care about what happens to us, to the group.” Rick paused, clenching his jaw. “But I never have to convince myself to care about you. That doesn’t ever leave me. And I don’t know why.”

He looked over at Daryl, unreadable eyes shining in the fire’s glow. Daryl couldn’t break away from Rick’s eyes, and everything seemed to get louder, brighter, more intense in that moment – the prickly grass beneath his hands, the chorus of insects surrounding them, and he swallowed hard. 

He looked away, breaking Rick’s gaze, not wanting to look at the man next to him and remember the way he felt pressed against his body, his rough kiss, and the way his nerves sang in those moments. 

“I don’t know either.” His voice came out gravelly.

Daryl studied Rick next to him – the rise and fall of his chest under his button-up shirt, the flutter of his eyelashes as he sighed, deepening the lines on his face, his strong hand resting on his stomach. Daryl’s heart beat faster, and with his eyes on Rick, he wanted – he just wanted. 

“Rick.” He propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at Rick.

Rick turned his head, a questioning slant to his eyebrows, but Daryl couldn’t continue, as if his throat had seized just to keep him from blurting out everything he’d thought about Rick since after Merle’s death (the kiss: he shied away from the label).   
“Never mind.” He collapsed back onto the ground, grinding his teeth, wishing he could just fucking say what he wanted. That he wanted to feel Rick again – wanted Rick, entirely, all of him.

He’d never been good with words; he’d always been all action, which was why he was good with hunting, mechanical shit, and killing. 

He was good with action, and he was good with Rick – they clicked, as dumb as it sounded, but they knew each other – from the subtlety of their facial expressions, to their emotional reactions, anything. They hadn’t needed words for a while now, and fuck if this wasn’t a situation where words would just make shit worse. He clenched his eyes shut, his want for Rick warring with literally everything else in him. 

“Daryl.” Rick’s voice had that commanding tone that set Daryl alight. Daryl cracked open his eyes, only to see Rick looking down at him, propped up on an elbow like Daryl had been before he’d lost his nerve. “Do you want this?”

He didn’t need to elaborate – Daryl knew he was talking about this thing growing between them. Throat dry, he could only nod.

Then Rick leaned over, firmly pressing his rough lips against Daryl’s. Daryl met his kiss warmly, pulling Rick into him with a hand to the back of his neck. The kiss deepened, and Rick’s touch sent sparks of arousal through Daryl’s body. Different from the last time (all rough touches and hard kisses), Rick kissed him slowly, deliberately – kissed him like he meant it. 

Daryl pulled Rick closer by the hip, his thumb rubbing the soft skin just under his shirt, and caught Rick’s lower lip, biting down before letting go. A low growl came from Rick’s chest, and Daryl kissed him more roughly, knowing that he caused Rick’s response and loving it. 

When they broke apart, both breathing heavily, Rick rested his forehead against Daryl’s, only for a moment, then fell back against the ground, lying next to Daryl like before. Daryl rolled to his side, watching Rick catch his breath.

Rick cleared his throat. “Do we have to talk about this?” The slight upward slant of his lips softened the furrow in his brow.

“Hell no.” Daryl laughed deeply – their shared reticence made it clear as hell neither of them wanted torture themselves with a conversation about emotions and shit. “But get the fuck over here.” With a wide smile, he pulled Rick back to meet his lips and sank into the kiss, finally content.


End file.
